


Minutes

by pink_ink



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Post Season 5, Sexual Content, Some Fluff, and that's ok, poetic smut, real relationships are beautiful but can still be complicated, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:18:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_ink/pseuds/pink_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian’s voice is low and quiet in his ear. “Eight minutes, huh? How many more minutes do you want to make it? How long can you last like this, Mick? Just like this.” He presses himself against Mickey before easing off, soft as a air.</p><p>Mickey doesn’t answer, because Ian’s hands keep moving over the sheet and it’s like he’s being traced, like some sort of chalk outline with the middle colored in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this pretty quickly tonight because I foolishly refuse to believe anything bad will happen to our boys in the season finale. 
> 
> I also am missing the midwestern winter/spring apparently. I also seem to be nostalgic for trying to open and shut old windows in every other place I've lived. 
> 
> I picture this at some point in the nearish future. I can dream.

Mickey’s watching Ian fumble with the window, hitting the corners a little with his fist, trying to loosen the stubborn places it’s stuck. He sighs a little ahh when it finally gives way and starts to jerk open. Mickey breathes really deep all of a sudden, like it’s early summer when all the streets don’t smell like shit yet. 

But it’s pretty cold now, and there isn’t a heavy blanket on this bed. Mickey isn’t sure why Ian’s opened the damn window, but Ian’s back is there in front of him, and it’s still kind of red around his shoulder blades where Mickey had to grab on harder _harder! fuck!_ just a few minutes ago, minutes that feel like hours, every time, when time stops like this and he can breathe again. Mickey’s eyes glide down the slow dip of the sheet, stopping just before the crease of Ian’s ass. Fuck. If Mickey could move right now, he’d just pull the sheet off him. 

“You know what Monica called these?” Ian says, pointing at the dust motes suspended in the sunlight. He swipes his hand and they move, and move again as the air from outside creeps in. 

There’s a pause. Ian lights a cigarette, breathes in and out before passing it over. 

Another pause. “Oh,” Mickey says, feeling the creases in his forehead. “I’m supposed to guess or something? 

Ian takes the cigarette back, grinning. “Fine. She called them dust fairies.” 

Mickey snorts. He lets his leg slide out from where it’s been bent, his thigh finally still and soft again. “Gay,” he says. 

“You’re gay,” Ian says. 

Mickey’s knee knocks him in the hip, and that fucking sheet slips down further, thank christ. His laugh is louder than he thought it would be. “Are you serious right now? 

Ian grabs his knee, traces a little, laughs a little. “Totally gay.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Fine, your cock was in me like eight minutes ago, so yeah.” 

Ian’s hand slides slowly up Mickey’s leg, cupping the kneecap and the place just above, thumb leading the way up the inside of Mickey’s thigh. _Well, fuck, that’s just great. There’s his leg shaking again._ Ian clucks his tongue as he puts the cigarette out. “Eight minutes, huh?” Mickey’s inhale is colder with the window open, and yeah, okay, he’s going to blame the shake in his breath on that. “What, you keeping track of the time now?” 

It’s the cold, it must be, because Mickey’s breath comes even harder, and he feels goosebumps rising on his chest., his nipples still sensitive as fuck. He yanks the sheet off Ian in one sweep, bringing it up to his neck, leaving Ian exposed. “Asshole.” 

Yeah. Ian’s exposed, but of course he doesn’t give a shit. He never does. Ian doesn’t even look cold. He’s just clucking his tongue and shaking his head. He’s just lightly returning his hands to the places they were, sliding the sheet against Mickey’s thighs. He’s just slowly letting them slide up and up, and then Ian’s sliding his body up and up and goddamn it Mickey’s back is curving up and up and his breath is up and up and it’s not the cold anymore, not even close. 

Ian’s voice is low and quiet in his ear. “Eight minutes, huh? How many more minutes do you want to make it? How long can you last like this, Mick? Just like this.” He presses himself against Mickey before easing off, soft as a air.

Mickey doesn’t answer, because Ian’s hands keep moving over the sheet and it’s like he’s being traced, like some sort of chalk outline with the middle colored in. 

“Ten?” Ian says, his mouth on his earlobe. “Fifteen?” The other earlobe. Ian’s face is inches from his, Ian’s licking his lips. Ian’s mouth is sliding over his, his lip softly pulling Mickey’s lip to the side before saying “Twenty?” 

Mickey opens his eyes. He can feel his eyes quickly moving over Ian’s face. Sometimes he catches himself doing that, doesn’t even know when he starts half the time. He’s looked at things that way all his life. If he’s not staring straight ahead, eyes a steady punch, his eyes cover every inch of whatever he can, as quick as he can, wherever he can. Ian lets him do it, doesn’t interrupt, knows it’s a reflex. It’s like when Mickey quickly scans a room, marking things to steal the way he was taught to do. His eyes are darting all over Ian’s face, now. _Right eye left ear cheekbone cheek jaw chin. Cleft chin. Neck cheek left eye right ear forehead lips teeth tongue._

There is a slow, steady climb up Mickey’s arms as Ian brings them up, lacing them together with his, resting them on the pillow alongside Mickey’s head. Mickey closes his eyes again, lets his mind expand and contract and expand again before he whittles his mind to focus on Ian’s hands in his. He waits until his mind can feel them there, feel them close in, one knuckle at a time. He feels Ian’s thumb brush harder against his. 

Mickey’s eyes jerk open, like he was pretending to be asleep, and his lip cocks up when he says, “Forty.” 

*

Mickey’s not sure how long he’s been able to count fast in his head, or how long he’s been able to stretch the counting into counting minutes, hours. But he can, and right now he’s trying to remember how many minutes everything was at the start, with the tire iron. How many minutes from sleep to throwing Ian around the room, being thrown against the room, grabbing at each other. How many minutes until he pinned Ian to the bed, breath so hard, eyes steady on his face. How many seconds did he watch Ian’s eyes dart around all over him, just like Mickey does sometimes. _Thigh cock eyes lips teeth tongue_ How long did Mickey’s chest heave until he caught his breath, only to lose it again a few minutes later? 

How long did he suck Ian down before Ian whispered _C’mere c’mon,_ grabbing Mickey’s shoulders, pushing him onto his back, pulling his leg around his waist and _fuck fuck fuck_ as Ian’s hand dropped to his ass. How many seconds did Mickey’s hand slam at the headboard, the table, wherever it was. He doesn’t even remember now. Ian pulling his ass cheek back with one long hand, looking down at him, mouth closed and then dropping open. He sure as fuck remembers that much. 

He remembers throwing the stuff to Ian and and remembers his eyes shut and all he thought at first, right when Ian’s slick finger touched him was _how did Ian even know it was what he wanted, this exact thing?_ How did Ian know the exact second Mickey was ready, really ready, for him to go in and in and in, bringing his other leg up before Mickey could stop him, pretending he wanted to turn over. How did Ian know where to touch him? How to let Mickey go first, how to make sure he felt safe to let go. _God, how did he know that, even then?_ How did Ian know how to let go so quietly but so completely, shortly after, one tiny little noise at the back of his throat?

*

Mickey’s sweating. The cold window isn’t helping. Everything is alive, too alive, too sensitive, and that was probably Ian’s fucking plan the whole time. He opens his mouth to tell him to shut the goddamn window but Ian’s mouth is there catching his and the noise Mickey makes is not quiet at all. 

Ian’s mouth pulls off his. "Remember that time I fucked you in your car and the cops threw the lights on and we thought we were busted?" Ian’s hips move in a slow circle and Mickey feels a groan come up past his teeth as he tries to shift away from the pressure. “But they were just headed up the street to arrest that guy?” Ian’s hips, so slow. His whisper. “Fuck, you came so fucking hard.” 

Mickey remembers. He tries to shake the thought off. How much time has passed? How much longer does he have to try and breathe like this? He can’t even think. His mind is trying to catch up with Ian’s hands. His mind can’t count minutes, can’t even try to find them, slips against itself as Ian’s lips pull against Mickey’s neck. “Remember you were riding me, holding onto the fucking seat. You made so much fucking noise.” Ian pulls off, groans low and loud. “Fucking bit me. God, so good.” Ian rolls his pelvis off him a bit, breathing hard, trying to calm down. 

_Riding him._ Fine, Mickey thinks. We’ll play that way. 

“You’re cheating, fucker,” Mickey says. grabbing at Ian, feeling his muscles work just enough to half-resist. Ian covers his eyes with his hands as Mickey’s knees hit either side of his hips. “Shitshitshit” Ian says. 

Mickey’s hands grab Ian’s wrists and pin them to the bed. Ian’s eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck.”

Mickey laughs, teasing. “Uh-uh. You don’t get to shut your eyes on me. Look at me. Eyes on me.” 

Ian’s eyes are open. Mickey watches him find the spot he made on his chest...oh fuck...ten minutes ago? Twenty? Oh god. Ian groans. “I’m not, I don’t think I can--”

Mickey squeezes Ian’s fingers. “Bull _shit._ You can. Didn’t see me complain’.” 

But god, they are both breathing so hard. “Fine,” Ian says, breath fast, but he tries to slow it. “Tell me what you like.” 

Mickey pauses on top of him. The underside of his thighs remember being held, held up, held down, held open wide. He lets his breath out. “My legs. When you mess around with my legs.”

Ian tries to breathe slow. “What else.” 

That cold air slides all over his neck, making his nipples more peaked, the hollow of his throat buzz. He doesn’t mean for his voice to be quiet. “Like when you touch me here,” he says, swiping his hand from one nipple to another. Through his foggy mind he thinks how embarrassed he would be to say _nipples_ and doesn’t really know why, but it doesn’t matter. 

“What else?” 

Mickey is brought down in his mind just enough to drag the tips of his fingers against annoyance, a brick wall with too many cracks in it. “Is this seriously supposed to be helpful? Seems like it ain’t doing us any favors.” 

Ian’s got the smirk on, and oh fuck, that means shit’s going to throw down. “Fine,” he says, and there it all comes at once. “I like the way your neck tastes after you’ve been sleeping. I like how you hold my hand when you’re falling asleep--” 

“I fucking do _not_ do that.”

Ian’s hands on the low of his back. “You fucking _do_ do that. Not like, all the time, but you do. And I like it.” 

Mickey slides his body down, tracing a line with his tongue somewhere on Ian’s chest, the sheet tangled and tired from trying to hold them apart. 

“Tell me something else,” Ian says. “Another time,” he says, breath heavy. “Anything.” 

Mickey pauses and he pulls his face up to meet Ian’s eyes. _Should he? He should. He thinks he should._ “That time when it got bad, really bad, the worst.” Part of Mickey wants to say _”Pick a time, though. There's been others, way before any of this started._ but Ian knows what he means. “Right after that. The first real time after that.” 

Ian stills, and Mickey does too. They become tiny pieces of themselves, suspended in air, waiting for someone to speak. It’s not a game anymore. It’s not their bodies. It’s just their eyes and their eyes and their eyes. 

Mickey can feel Ian shift beneath him, the grief and apologies still buried in the marrow of their hips. Ian’s eyes try to leave Mickey’s, but Mickey holds onto them, finding him and holding onto him tight. Ian’s eyes close, then open and they are wet as he turns his face to the window.

“Heyheyhey,” Mickey says, holding himself up on an elbow, other hand finding Ian’s face, pulling it gently back. “Come here.”

Ian’s hand moves to cover his eyes, then, and Mickey doesnt stop him this time. “I’m just--” Ian said. “I just, I can’t--” 

“Ian, look,” Mickey says. “It was different after that. Lots was different. But that first time after all that. Remember that?” Ian nods. “Remember how that was different? Good different?” 

Mickey remembers it perfectly, can see it if he closes his eyes. His shaking fingers. Ian’s eyes closed. The way their lips barely touched for so long, a hand here, a glide there. It was hesitant and nervous and chests pulled wide open, exposing everything. 

Ian swallows, meets his eyes, steadies. “Was slow.” 

“Fuckin right it was slow,” Mickey says, but there’s no bite. He cups Ian’s face. “That shit was perfect. Different after that. And you know it.” 

Ian nods, tries to squirm out from under him. “I know.” 

Mickey lets his weight fall on Ian again. “No, I don’t think you fucking know. I said that shit was perfect. And it’s been better after all that. It has. What, you you think we’re still two kids in a fucking refrigerator?”

Ian smiles, then pulls his mouth closed again. “I know. I get it.” 

Mickey’s mouth falls, lets his lips pull Ian’s mouth open, and Ian’s hands glide up Mickey’s back, his shoulders. Slow, so slow, but Mickey doesn’t need that, not right now. All of this has been slow, all of it, these minutes ticking by on some imaginary clock in his body. 

“I think we did it,” Mickey says. 

Ian cranes his neck to see if his phone is there. “Let me look at -- did you--” 

“I didn’t,” Mickey says. “I don’t know what time it is.” 

Ian smiles. “You always know what time it is.” 

Mickey’s tongue darts out, licking his smile. “Time to start fucking I guess.”

Ian smiles wider. “How do you want…” 

But Mickey’s already pulling him on top of him, saying “Like this. Just like this. The way you are like this.” 

The window is open, and Ian is warm on top of him, inside him. Mickey’s eyes find his, and there are so many words there, over and over and over. 

Ian drops to kiss him again, and Mickey nips his lip. Breath. Mickey’s hands find Ian’s head, slide through Ian’s hair and pull and pull there, pulling out the noises they both love. Mickey’s voice is shaky as he tries to talk, and Ian makes that tiny sound at the back of his throat. Mickey lets his breath be almost pressed out of him as he pulls Ian’s chest so tight against him, neck falling back on his pillow, throat exposed and ready. Ian pulls himself up on his elbow, sighing. Mickey’s fingers press in and in and in against his back, and Ian is messing with his legs, pushing them wider and moving and god they are both so fucking loud. Mickey reaches a shaky hand down between them, but he barely has to. How many minutes is this? Not many. 

*

The cigarette is good. They watch the smoke swirl and it knocks all those little bits of dust out of the sun and then the specks of dust slide back. Mickey likes the way they look like that, moving forward and back like that. He’ll even take the cold coming in. He’ll take Ian’s body, still hot against his. 

“I should shut the window,” Ian says, turning into the pillow

Mickey says, “It’s weird to think that dust stuff is in the air the whole time and you can’t see it.” 

Ian sits up and jiggles the window frame, passes the cigarette to Mickey, tugs with two hands until the window comes down. 

“Put this out,” Mickey says. “I’m tired from all this shit.”

He turns over and closes his eyes, and he hears the ashtray move a second - no, six seconds. Ian slides down the bed, letting out a slow, tired breath. Mickey feels him turn, then feels Ian’s arm slide over him. Mickey feels his fingers twitch to hold his, maybe.

Soon it will be spring. Real spring, not this half winter half spring shit. Then Summer. And everything will start smelling like piss and garbage like it does, and they’ll sweat all the time, which truthfully isn’t that terrible. But for now it’s their skin, the smell they have like this, after. Mickey will wake up with Ian’s nose in his neck, and when they stretch their limbs out Ian will come back to his neck and go, “Mmm,” and Mickey will know what it means. Beyond that, he doesn’t know, but he knows how to wait.


End file.
